


I Found

by ready_to_kick_some_ass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A lot of talking, Angst, Because of Reasons, Drug Use, Episode: The Abominable Bride, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Ignores Season 4, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Mycroft worries constantly, Not Canon Compliant, Overdose, Protective John, Sexual Content, Talking, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-10-20 07:00:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10657344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ready_to_kick_some_ass/pseuds/ready_to_kick_some_ass
Summary: John almost loses Sherlock - for the second time. Suddenly they both realize, that what they need - what they always needed - is right in front of them. They just need to finally seize the opportunity. But the shadows of the past are always present. Their personal demons, lurking in their minds. And they won't rest so easily ...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

The plane lands and John can’t suppress a relieved sigh.  
  
Of course the reason for Sherlock’s return is more than worrying - but John can’t think of that right now. Entirely different thoughts are bothering him.  
Sherlock was almost gone. Again. Away in a distant country, away from John, who has already pictured his life for the next six months. The images that came before his eyes didn’t please him.  
  
_That’s not me._  
  
No. It’s not him.  
  
John is the first on the plane when it finally lands on the tarmac.  
He stumbles into the passenger cabin, with a crooked grin on his face - and the next moment he freezes. The sight before him seems to come from a nightmare.  
“No,” he says, without really realizing it. “No. No!”  
  
He runs to Sherlock while Mycroft and Mary are just entering the plane behind him.  
  
He runs to Sherlock, who is collapsed in his seat, motionless, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. Next to him on the floor is a syringe - so small and seemingly harmless.  
  
_No. No, this is not happening. No._  
  
He runs to Sherlock and shakes him by the shoulders, checking for a pulse - he finds it, but it’s so weak that it can hardly be felt. And is Sherlock even breathing? Hardly.  
_Oh God …_  
  
John pulls Sherlock hastily to the ground and starts CPR.  
  
“But … I … we just telephoned,” he hears Mycroft stammering, who stands completely frozen, his eyes wide open. The usual self-control gone in one short moment. “I …”  
“Call an ambulance!” John shouts at him, and Mycroft jumps and reaches for his cell phone.  
  
“God, no, don’t do this to me, Sherlock. Don’t do this!"John stammers while trying to keep Sherlock’s heart beating. Tears rise into his eyes. Take away his vision. Blur sight of Sherlock’s silent, lifeless face.  
  
Suddenly, there are strange voices and hands are pushing him away. At first he wants to fight - _I have to help him, I have to_ \- but then he realizes that the paramedics are there, and he makes room for them, moves aside, still breathing heavily.  
"How … how did he get the drugs,” he mutters, shaking his head. “He was … he was locked up the whole time, wasn’t he?”  
  
He looks up to find Mycroft’s pale, shocked face, and the elder Holmes nods. “It was a single cell. He couldn’t … I don’t know, John.”  
  
John swallows and his eyes fall on Mary’s face. She looks calm and composed. But her eyes avoids his gaze. And suddenly, he sees her hugging Sherlock. Grabbing him on the tarmac. Holding him longer than necessary. Whispering something into his ear.  
Everything in him feels numb.  
He stares at her. And then he says softly, barely audible, “Did you give him the drugs?”  
  
Mary finally looks at him, eyes wide open, with no light in them. Her mouth is a narrow line. She says nothing. For John, this is confirmation enough.  
  
Before his shock can turn into something like furious rage, his attention is directed to the paramedics, who lift Sherlock onto a stretcher and start carrying him quickly out of the plane.   
“I’ll come along,” John says quickly, turning away from the woman who is foreign to him.  
  
He hears Mycroft muttering something like, “I’ll meet you there,” and hurries after the medics, out of the plane into a beginning drizzle. 

*

It’s still raining a while later when John learns from a doctor that Sherlock is still unconscious, but out of danger.  
  
This doesn’t help much to lighten John’s mood.  
  
Sherlock has taken an overdose.  
An overdose that has been almost fatal.  
As much as John hates the thought, and as much as he wants to push the truth away, he knows that it was definitely a suicide attempt.  
  
When he finally sits by Sherlock’s bed, the emotions finally start to overhelm him.  
  
The last days - weeks! - had been exhausting, chaotic, and frantic. A pace that he could barely keep up with.  
He is still in shock. The sight of Sherlock’s motionless body in the plane burnt into his memory. Added to the memories of Sherlock on the asphalt. His bloody face. His open eyes …  
John swallows and presses his knuckles against his temples. _God._  
  
And then there are all the other emotions. Mourning, because Sherlock had to do that. _Why did he do it?_  
And a burning sense of guilt. _What did I miss this time? What have I not done, what should I have done?_  
  
In addition, the hint of disbelief and anger, at the thought that Mary was the one who has given Sherlock the drugs. _Mary. God knows if that’s her real name anyway …_  
All the thoughts and emotions press down on him like a heavy burden.  
_What a mess …_  
  
John sighs and jumps a little, as a similar sigh can be heard from the bed.  
He looks at Sherlock and meets half-opened, slightly glassy eyes.  
Sherlock blinks at him and then says softly, “John. _Oh_.”  
  
“Hello,” says John, scratching his neck uneasily. “How do you feel?”  
  
Sherlock says nothing. He looks up at the ceiling and blinks furiously. Then he says, “That’s … unexpected.”  
  
Unexpected. Suddenly, a heavy weight seems to lie on John’s chest. It hurts.  
_Unexpected. Because he expected … to be dead._  
John can’t suppress a choked gasp.  
  
Sherlock looks at him and his face gets somehow … Cautious. Anxious  
“John, are you angry?” He says softly.  
  
“No. No, I’m not angry. I … I can … I’m glad you’re here, "John stammers, biting his lip.  
  
Sherlock’s gaze gets a bit doubtful. He looks back at the ceiling and sighs. Then he distorts his face.  
  
"Are you in pain?” John asks worriedly.  
  
“Mmh, no, it’s my head. Feels like … John, am I really awake? Is this here … is this real?”  
  
John blinks in amazement. “Yes. Yes, of course this is real.”  
  
“Ah.” Sherlock closes his eyes and frowns. “I understand. So … Moriarty?” He says the name hesitantly. With a trace of anger in his voice.  
  
"Yes. Moriarty. His face was on all screens …”  
  
“A very dramatic performance. So he’s the reason that … ” Sherlock doesn’t finish the sentence. But they both know exactly which message lies in the unspoken words.  
An unpleasant silence is briefly in the air.  
  
Then John clears his throat and breaks it. “I … As soon as you have recovered a bit, we can go home. And then we should talk.”  
  
Sherlock looks at him with wide open eyes. Amazed. “Home? _We_?”  
  
“Yes. We.”  
  
“But … you should be with Mary.”  
  
John flinches at the name. His gaze becomes dark. “No. I’m right where I should be.”  
  
“But …”  
  
“She gave you the drugs, didn’t she?”  
  
Sherlock opens his mouth, but says nothing. He looks away and swallows.  
  
John nods grimly. “I knew it …”  
  
“John …”  
  
“No. Not now. We’ll talk about it. But not now,” John says firmly. "Rest now.”  
Sherlock looks at him again, then sighs and turns to his side. He closes his eyes.  
  
Suddenly, it is very quiet again. The only sounds are the rain outside, the regular beeping of the heart monitor, and the ticking of the clock on the wall.  
It is however no unpleasant silence this time. 

*

When they can finally go home - after John emphasized that he would look after Sherlock - it is as if John had never been away.  
Old familiarity. Well-known smells and a pleasant atmosphere.  
And Sherlock. Sherlock, who was almost gone. This time forever.  
They sit in their old chairs in front of the fireplace. Mugs with steaming tea in their hands. And John finally can’t stand it anymore.  
He looks at Sherlock and says softly, “So. How do we start?”  
  
Sherlock sighs and looks slightly to the side. “You want to know everything I suppose …”  
  
“Yes. No more lies.”  
  
“Good. The mission in Eastern Europe was one that would have ended with my death. Six months, then … ” He finished the sentence with a meaningful look.  
  
John swallows. “God …” For a moment, a furious rage towards Mycroft comes over him. “So your own brother sent you …”  
  
“Don’t John,” Sherlock says mildly. “There were options. And I had to choose one. ”  
  
“But why _this_. You could …” But actually, John knows why. In the last few days he had a lot of time to think about it all. And to become clear about some things. “You wanted to leave my life. You wanted me to have a family with Mary. To be a father. To lead an ordinary life,” he says bitterly, and Sherlock looks at him full of pain.  
  
“Yes. Well … I deduced it was the right thing to do, John,” he says softly and smiles obliquely. “Listen. As long as I am here, you will be in danger. What you saw in Appledore should have shown you why. You’re truly my … my pressure point John.”  
  
John doesn’t quite know what to say. He swallows.  
  
Sherlock continues to talk. “And since I knew how this mission would end, I saw no point in fighting for so long. Again. I was … tired John. Tired of everything. I would have had enough opportunities there in Eastern Europe. But then …”  
  
“Mary gave you the drugs,” John says bitterly. He feels numb. “Because she knew …”  
  
“Yes. She gave them to me and whispered in my ear that she would never tell you. She … promised.” Sherlock looks at John sadly. “I’m sorry, John.”  
  
“Oh God.” John shakes his head in disbelief.  
  
“I didn’t want to fight. There wasn’t a reason this time. But it was also that … I didn’t want to live with the idea of never seeing you again,” Sherlock says softly, swallowing hard. “Six months is a long time, John. Long enough to dream. Long enough to lose yourself in illusions. I’ve done this before. For almost two years. I didn’t want a repetition. Above all, not with the knowledge of my certain death.”  
  
“I would have come with you,” John whispers.  
  
Sherlock looks at him in astonishment. “What?”  
  
“I would have come with you. We could have fought together. And I wouldn’t have allowed you to be killed. Never.”  
  
Sherlock swallows. But then he shakes his head slightly and says sadly, “John. You have a family now. You have responsibilities. You don’t have to … It would not have been right to ask you … ”  
  
“I have no family,” John says bitterly. “I have a woman who lied about everything. Who shot you. Who gave you drugs so you could try killing yourself. Who … I don’t even know if the child is mine. I don’t know.” He looks up. He looks straight into Sherlock’s eyes. “I’d rather have been with you somewhere in Eastern Europe than here in that damn apartment in the suburbs. And I mean that serious.”  
  
Sherlock blinks. He looks confused. “But … _why_?”  
  
John takes a deep breath.  
_Why? Because you are my life. You’ve been everything to me since the beginning. Because I need you. Because I was so afraid of losing you again. Because I can’t bear the thought of never seeing you again. I can’t imagine a life without you. And I know that you’re in love with me. That you have been for a very long time. And I’m so sorry. I’m sorry that I hurt you and that I made you think that I don’t want you. Because I love you too. Yes I do. And …_  
  
"Because I’m an idiot,” John says. “An utter idiot.”  
  
Sherlock looks at him, frowning.  
John returns his look nervously.  
Something in him is very clear now. Something …  
_I want to …_  
_God I want to kiss him._  
_I want to kiss him so badly._  
_I want to kiss him and hold him._  
_I want to tell him what he really means to me._  
_I want to tell him that I love him._  
_I want …_  
In the next moment he is suddenly on his feet.  
He goes to Sherlock and kneels before him.  
Looks into his eyes.  
“I would like to try something. Can I?” He asks softly, and Sherlock looks at him, frowning. “What?” He asks nervously.  
  
John swallows.  
_I want to do this. But I’m scared. Help me Sherlock …_  
  
“Do you trust me?” He asks Sherlock, who nods uncertainly.  
  
John clears his throat and moves closer to Sherlock until they almost touch. He swallows and holds out a hand until his fingertips wander gently over Sherlock’s cheek.  
Sherlock looks at him with wide-open eyes, his breath accelerates slightly, and John realizes that he has started to tremble.  
  
“Everything’s allright,” says John softly and swallows. He doesn’t know whether the words are meant for him or Sherlock.  
  
He puts his hand on Sherlock’s warm cheek, then gently strokes it. Sherlock closes his eyes and leans into the touch. Seems to enjoy it. John’s throat is dry. He’s incredibly nervous. As nervous as never before in his life. His heart pounds wildly in his chest as he moves so close to Sherlock that their noses almost touch.  
  
Sherlock opens his eyes again as he can feel John’s quick breath on his face, and they look into each other’s eyes. Sherlock’s gaze wanders over John’s face uncertainly and frantically.  
“John,” he says uncertainly and swallows. “I…”  
  
John smiles at him and takes Sherlock’s right hand with his free hand. He squeezes it slightly.  
“Trust me,” he says softly, then he gently puts his lips on Sherlocks.  
  
At first it’s a little like kissing a statue.  
Sherlock seems to be completely frozen.  
  
But John doesn’t care.  
He is fully occupied with the unexpected, but welcome, sensations that rise in him.  
  
There’s a warm glow in his chest. It slowly wanders to his abdomen and down into his toes.  
Sherlock’s lips, soft and slightly cracked, open slightly and John can feel warm breath against his own lips.  
His heart beats loudly and quickly in his chest.  
  
He takes Sherlock’s face in both hands, strokes them over his cheeks and presses his lips a bit firmer against Sherlock’s.  
He wants more touch, more intensity, more of everything. All the problems, all the worries, dissolve in the warm feeling, which fully captures him and which he wants to pass on.  
  
He feels Sherlock tremble under his touch, and then, finally, he reciprocates the kiss.  
  
John smiles into the kiss, which gets a little quicker and more intense, loses its innocence, and he sucks gently on Sherlock’s lower lip, which makes him jump slightly and gasp softly, and then Sherlock’s hand is suddenly on the back of his head, clinging  cautiously to his hair. John hums his approval, the welcome touch reinforces the pulling in his stomach and the glow that has caught his chest.  
  
At some point, after eternities, and over an instinctive signal, they separate and look at each other, breathing heavily.  
  
John smiles timidly and clears his throat. “Um, well, that was …”  
  
“Fantastic,” Sherlock finishes the sentence breathlessly, then looks down, a bit embarrassed.  
  
John laughs, the first time in days, and nods. “It was. It really was. ”  
  
Sherlock looks at him a bit shyly, but he smiles. John smiles back at him.  
He feels like he has done the right thing.  
  
He knows that not everything is perfect right now, but he feels that they can solve the problems of the future together.  
But this moment belongs to them.  
  
And as if by another secret signal, they both lean in for another kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

When Sherlock wakes up the next morning, he can still feel the kiss on his lips.  
  
It seems unreal to him.  
  
If one has given oneself to illusions for as long as him, reality is fragile and the truth often seems like one of the many imagined scenarios.  
But as he turns around in bed and looks directly into John's sleeping face, his heart skips a beat and he involuntarily touches his lips with his fingertips.  
  
Yes, it’s true.  
John kissed him.  
  
Not only that, he aslo slept in Sherlock's bed. In Sherlock’s bed. Even though his old bed would have been made ...   
  
Sherlock looks at John's calm, relaxed face and once more he has to fight against a voice in his head, which is trying to make it clear to him that it's too much. Too much of the good to be true.  
But it’s true.   
It's true, it is not a dream, no illusion, no hallucination induced by drugs. No.  
  
And suddenly, Sherlock feels so lucky to be alive that he has to laugh.  
  
John stirs.   
He slowly opens his eyes.  
And then he smiles obliquely. "Good Morning. It's nice to wake up to your laughter."  
  
Sherlock immediately feels his face heat up and redness creeping in his cheeks. He swallows embarrassedly.  
 _Too much_ , the voice whispers in his head again. This time even more urgently. _Don’t you see that it's too much?!_  
He frowns and shakes his head unwillingly.  
  
Instantly, John looks worried. "Hey? Is everything ok?"  
  
"I ... yes. Yes. Everything's all right," Sherlock says, brusing his hair from his forehead nervously.   
  
John doesn’t look confident. He clears his throat. "Sherlock, if this is going too fast, you have to tell me, yeah? What we did ... yesterday. That was very fast and sudden. I know that …"  
  
Sherlock swallows hard.  
 _That's it. He is disappointed. Disappointed that you can't keep up with his pace. He will look for someone who can deal better with all of this._ The voice in his head again. Mocking him.   
Suddenly, the happiness that had filled him a few minutes ago vanishes. Makes room for a mixture of confusion and fear. And he can't bear to look into John’s worried eyes. He'll be sick.  
Hastily, he swings his legs out of bed, stands up, and leaves the room. Murmurs, "I have to go to the bathroom ..."   
  
He can still hear a silent, "Sherlock". Then he is in the bathroom and quickly closes the door.  
  
He goes to the sink. Grabs the edge with his hands. Clings to it and stares at his face in the mirror. He looks into his eyes filled with panic.  
 _What is a kiss? A kiss is not ... love. John has kissed many people in his life.  
For example ... his wife.  
_  
He has a wife.  
  
 _Are you so sure that he does not love her enough to take her back?  
He kissed you.  
But it was just a kiss ...  
_  
 _But he said it was fantastic ... I ... I even felt his arousal_ , Sherlock thinks, and feels a blush on his cheeks again.  
  
 _And? A physical reaction. Transport. Right? Does it really have anything to do with you?  
_  
Sherlock groans and lowers his head. Suddenly, he feels tears in his eyes. What's the matter with him? Why can’t he just be happy? It's ... All he wanted was in the kiss yesterday. In John's eyes. In his smile.  
Nevertheless, the doubt gnaws at him. And the self-hatred is not far away. Lurking inside him. Just too ready to push him back into the depths of depression ... "Sherlock?"   
  
John ...   
John outside the door. His voice worried.   
  
"Sherlock? Can I come in?"  
  
 _And see how miserable I am? How miserable I have always been? I couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in your eyes now_ , Sherlock thinks, resigned. But before he can say anything, the door opens and John enters with determined steps, stopping when he sees Sherlock standing by the sink. With his head lowered.   
  
"Sherlock. What's happening? I'm ... I'm sorry if I did something wrong!” "Sherlock can't suppress a hysterical snort. John? John doing something wrong? Oh, if only he knew ...   
"No," he finally gets out. "No, it ... it's not you. It ..." He sighs. "It’s me."   
  
"You?" John asks softly. Suprised.  
  
"Yes. Me." Sherlock turns around slowly and looks at John. John, who is standing in front of him, his face questioning, his mouth slightly open. And Sherlock is beginning to drown in John's eyes again. He swallows.  
"When are you leaving?" He asks and makes it as matter-of-fact as possible.  
  
John blinks. Then he says slowly, "Leaving? To go where?"  
  
"To your wife," Sherlock responds, looking down at the floor. He can no longer look into those eyes. "She ... will be wondering where you are."  
  
"Sherlock. She knows where I am," John says, shaking his head slightly.  
  
Sherlock looks up surprisedly. "What?"  
  
"I texted her. I ... told her the facts."  
  
"Facts?"  
 _You sound like an idiotic parrot_ , the voice tells him soberly.  
  
"Yes, the facts. That I'll stay here. That I want a divorce. That I don’t want to see her anymore." John's face darkens. "And that if she doesn’t want to end up in prison, she should go far away. Before I tell anyone about the drug thing. And ... all the other things." And then, John slowly lifts his left hand. Sherlock gasps. He stares at John's finger with wide open eyes.   
There’s ... no ring.  
  
He swallows and shakes his head slightly.  
"But ... why?" He asks softly.  
  
John sighs and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, there are so many emotions there that Sherlock can't decrypt them all. John bridges the distance between them with a few steps.   
"Because," he whispers, laying a hand on Sherlock's cheek as he did the day before. "Because now, I have everything I need. All I want. Everything I always wanted ... "  
Sherlock stares at him, different emotions fighting for dominance.  
Again, happiness blazes in him. Happiness and hope.  
  
But the doubt is like a hot piece of black coal that weighs on his heart.  
  
He shakes his head in despair.  
 _John ... please help me. I don’t know what to feel ...  
_  
"You can't want that ... you can’t want ... me ... you don’t know ... you ..." he stammers desperately, and again tears are in his eyes, and he hasn’t got the strength to push them back.  
  
"What don’t I know?" John asks, not taking his hand away from Sherlock's warm cheek. "What?"  
  
 _That I’m a failure, John. That I’m nothing. That I always have been and always will be worthless ..._  
"That ... that I ... that I will always disappoint you," Sherlock finally brings out. A single tear runs slowly down his cheek.  
  
"Sherlock," John whispers, his breath trembling. "Oh Sherlock. No. You will never disappoint me. Don’t you know that every day I'm falling in love with you a bit more? That every day I discover more, that I have missed all these years? That I regret every day, how much time passed before I understood the truth?" He strokes his hand over Sherlock's cheek, and then gently lifts his chin until Sherlock looks into his eyes. "All I need," he says gravely. "All I need is you. You make me complete. And I will not let anything ever come between us. Not again."  
And then he puts his lips on Sherlock’s.  
  
Sherlock lets out a sound that is almost a whine, and involuntarily wraps his arms around John. Pulls him nearer almost desperately. His hands wander over John’s back, restlessly.   
  
The voice in him is silent for a moment.  
  
And Sherlock feels the desperate hope that maybe he can allow it ...  
When the kiss ends, they look at each other silently.  
And then, Sherlock bursts into tears. 

*

"This is so humiliating," Sherlock murmurs, as he sniffs and accepts the tissue that John is handing to him.  
"The whole crying ... I've never been so pathetic."  
  
John shakes his head. "Don’t say that ... crying is human. It’s normal to cry, when you’re surprised by a load of emotions.”  
  
"I'm often told I'm not really human," Sherlock says dryly.  
  
"But you know it's not true," John replies quietly. "And that you have the same feelings as every other human."  
  
"But sometimes," Sherlock says, "I wish they were right."  
  
"I think," John says, looking to the side, "that everyone thinks that sometimes."  
  
A little later they are back in Sherlock's room. Sitting next to each other, their shoulders touching lightly.  
Outside, it’s very foggy. You can hardly see the houses on the other side of the street.  
  
Sherlock gives John a shy side glance.  
Still, he feels completely intoxicated with all the emotions that seem to hold a competition inside him.  
He wants to tell John that now, he also has found what he always wanted.  
But at the same time, the fear takes away the words. What if they are the wrong ones? Or what if John suddenly changes his mind?  
  
Don’t people often change their minds?  
  
How many relationships break every day? How many “I love you”’s fade to a dull, emotionless “it's no longer what it was”?  
  
 _I don’t want it to pass ...  
_  
John interrupts his thoughts.  
"So," he says, smiling at Sherlock.  
  
Oh, that smile. Does John even know how wonderful it is? How much it is? There lies a whole universe in it. A universe of memories and dreams. And now there is a special kiss in it. A kiss that Sherlock will always remember ...  
  
"What do we want to do? Today?"  
  
"Oh," Sherlock suddenly realizes that John is asking him what he wants. He thinks briefly. Scratches his arm uncertainly. How much can he expect from John? What can he ...   
  
"Hey," suddenly John puts a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Don’t think! Just tell me what you would like to do, okay?"  
 _Oh John. Can you really read my mind?_  
"I ... dinner at Angelo’s later, maybe?" Sherlock smiles uncertainly.  
  
John nods and returns the smile. "With pleasure." And then he reaches for Sherlock's hand, leads it to his mouth and breathes a kiss on the back of his hand. Just like that.   
Sherlock stares incredulously. A touch of red on his cheeks and a giggle on his lips.  
 _Oh my ... Are we a pair of teenagers in love?_ He thinks with a glimpse of disbelief.  
 _But ... I like it.  
_  
He likes it because for so long he has only dreamed about this and it's a thousand times better in reality ... 

“How about breakfast now?” John asks suddenly and smiles.   
Sherlock nods and smiles back. 

*

The evening runs at a quiet, slow pace.  
Red wine and pasta.   
Their glasses reflect the dancing fire of the candle on the table.   
  
This time, John asked for one specifically.   
  
Sherlock feels as if he's in an intermediate state of dream and reality.  
Sometimes, he expects to wake up.  
Maybe on the plane.  
Maybe back in the hospital.  
  
But then, John's fingers slowly wander over the back of his hand, leaving a feeling of warmth and solid reality.  
Sherlock looks into John's warm eyes.  
  
 _John._  
Sherlock loves to say his name.  
And suddenly he just says that.  
"I like your name," he says and looks aside embarrassedly.   
  
"Yes?" John sounds a little surprised. "Mmh. I never liked it much. It’s nothing special ... "  
  
"Oh, but it is," Sherlock replies. Disbelief stirs in him. How can John not know ...  
"It’s wonderful. It has no edges. It’s like a sound in music. A strong, yet also soft one, that sounds short on the violin and then fades with a special certainty ..." He falls silent. He is warm and sure he already has that blush on his face again ...  
  
But John looks at him in astonishment. "I've never heard someone talking about it like that before," he says softly. "Wow."  
  
He puts his hand firmer on Sherlock’s and smiles.  
  
Sherlock's heart opens like a rose that evening.  
It's all fast, but it's easy. Much easier than he thought it would be.   
_Can it be that we should really be here. That we are driven towards an end which was destined for us ..._  
It is a thought that seems a little bit silly to him. But at the same time it makes him happy.  
  
He eats and drinks more than usual.  
A pleasant heaviness slowly spreads in his body.  
  
And as John hands him his hand and pulls him out the door, into the foggy cool night, the world is reduced to that one hand and this one pair of eyes which radiates so much warmth and affection ...

*

They walk through the almost deserted streets for a long time.  
  
Once, a cat crosses their way. Gray in the twilight. Throwing a curious look at them and then jumping off.  
  
For a long time they are walking in silence.   
Words are not always necessary. Instead, their intertwined hands speak.  
  
 _How did we get here_ , Sherlock wonders. _How come we can't let go suddenly. As if …  
_  
"You know you can talk to me about everything, don’t you?" John asks, pulling Sherlock out of his thoughts. "About everything ... Even if you are afraid of something. I want to share everything with you."  
  
"Yes," Sherlock says, a bit hoarsely. "I ... I want to share everything with you too."  
  
John smiles.  
  
Sherlock has a thought, but hesitates to pronounce it.  
But just now he has promised to tell everything.  
Everything is everything.  
The good and the bad thoughts.  
The joys and the fears.  
He should start right away.  
  
"John. There's something I have to tell you."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I ... I'm afraid you ... that there are things you don’t know about me which might change your mind. Things from ... the past. For example."  
  
 _The past._  
Dark memories lurking in the back alleys of his mind palace.  
Behind well-closed doors. But in the end, these locks also consist only of fragile thoughts. Like the rest of the palace.   
And sometimes the memories come out to torment him.  
The high of the drugs. Forgetting everything, for a moment. Shutting out the far too fast, far too loud world.  
But then - the cruel crash. Pain and torture.  
Nights, spent on dirty mattresses.  
Hours he had sat on his knees before someone who didn’t want too much in exchange for money.  
Without money, there were no drugs.  
Without drugs - there was endless torture.  
All this rushes through Sherlock's head as he looks at John and awaits his reaction.  
  
John swallows and says softly, "No matter what you tell me, it will change nothing. On the contrary. I want to know everything. And if there's something that still hurts you, I want to help you deal with it. I also carry things with me that I have never told anybody. Secrets are normal. The important thing is to find the one person with whom you can share them. Who can help you cope with them. Do you understand?"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock breathes. The sudden strike of love he feels is so strong that it brings tears to his eyes again. Finding the one man ... how often he had dreamed of this. How many times has he asked himself whether there is a so called “soulmate” waiting for him.   
The one great love that doesn’t end.  
The love that makes you stronger rather than weaker ...  
  
"Should we go home? And ... talk?" John asks.   
  
"Yes," Sherlock says.  
  
And and hand in hand they go. 

*

Mycroft stares at the screen and frowns.  
  
What he sees equally surprises and confuses him.  
  
His brother walks through the misty streets with John Watson at his side. And ... their hands are intertwined.  
After a while, they stop. Look at each other. A look so intimate and intense that Mycroft briefly holds his breath and feels strange - as if he were looking at something that should not be accessible to him ...  
They talk.  
And then they go.  
Towards home.  
  
Mycroft swallows.  
He slowly turns away and folds his arms behind his back.  
Slowly he walks back and forth in his office.   
_How did that happen.  
So fast and suddenly.  
_  
Mycroft sighs reluctantly.  
Again, he has to try to understand something he doesn’t really want to know about.  
Again, he can’t help his emotions, and he gets angry with himself.  
Worry and joy side by side.   
  
Is this development a danger or an opportunity?  
Will it just destroy Sherlock further or will it save him?  
Questions he already had asked himself years ago.  
  
But then ... it didn’t seem as if John Watson would return romantic feelings.  
And now, so suddenly after Sherlock's ... suicide attempt.  
  
And what about the woman whose real name they don’t even know?  
Who had so incredibly, effortlessly deceived everyone - even him?  
  
The need to protect Sherlock has grown stronger during the recent events.  
  
And so Mycroft decides to take John Watson aside for a conversation ...


	3. Chapter 3

They come home just in time to escape a thunderstorm. Soon rain beats evenly against the windows in Sherlock’s room, and occasionally lightning flashes in the dark night sky. John sits on the bed and tries to arrange his thoughts.   
He wants everything at once and at the same time, he wants everything to go as slowly as possible. Wants to give them both time. Time to cope. Time to understand … but haven’t they already wasted enough time? Wasted on looking and talking past each other. Wasted on distorting reality and creating a pseudo-world that gave them only pain.  
For too long, time has run through his fingers right before his eyes.

  
Now John wants to finally use it.

  
It is like an intoxication, a new discovery that surpasses all that has existed.  
Sherlock is the bright sun in his life that he needs to get closer to. And even if he was to be burned, at least he would have been allowed to be near his perfection..  
He looks at Sherlock, who is standing in front of the closet, slowly unbuttoning his shirt.  
He sees Sherlock’s muscles working under the fabric. Sees a perfect curl resting at the nape of his neck. His long, elegant neck.

  
There’s a thought in John, that wants to come to the surface.   
“You are beautiful,” he says.

Sherlock’s fingers stop. His back goes tense. He looks aside.  
“Beautiful. An … unusual word in relation to me.”  
  
John swallows.  
“I mean it,” he says softly.  
  
“I believe you,” Sherlock replies. It sounds more like, _I want to believe you. I want to._  
  
John gets up and goes to him.  
He puts his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and slowly turns him around. Looks into his eyes.  
“You can believe me.”  
  
Dilated pupils meet each other. Dancing over faces and taking in information.  
John closes the last distance between them and lays his lips on Sherlock’s.  
His hand is in Sherlock’s hair and he catches the soft sound that leaves Sherlock’s lips with his own.   
The kiss is intense and warm and fantastic.  
And John feels like he’s floating.  
He strokes one hand through the soft curls, enveloped in emotions that nearly overwhelm him.  
Warm.  
Warmth is his world. _  
  
Sherlock_ is his world.  
  
They finish the kiss after what feels like an eternity and John looks at Sherlock, who now has a touch of color on his face,  which looks incredibly good on him. He smiles.  
“And you’re even prettier with a bit of a blush on your cheeks.”

“John,” Sherlock says, shaking his head. But his lips twitch a smile.  
  
John sighs and shakes his head in resignation.   
“Tell me why this took us so long …”  
  
“Because we’re idiots,” Sherlock says dryly.  
  
“Wait. We? I thought I was the only idiot! ”  
  
Sherlock looks at him seriously. “You never were, John. Of course not.”

  
  
*

  
  
Later, they exchange words in the dark. Lying next to each other. So close that they can feel the warmth of each other …  
  
“Do you know where Mary is now?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Mycroft may know …”  
  
“I don’t want to know. I don’t want … she is a lie. Everything about her is a lie. I can hardly believe she is the woman who … helped me, back then. I was … you have to understand that … ” His voice breaks. He swallows.  
It’s hard to talk about this.  
So hard …  
After a few deep breaths, he goes on.   
“I was depressed, okay? I was … I always had my gun nearby. On the night table. Or in my jacket pocket. It was loaded. It was an … option. ”  
  
“John,” Sherlock breathes softly. “Oh, John …”

"What should I have done, Sherlock? What should I have done in this world that had robbed me of my meaning of life right after I’d found it? And … I thought … I thought, now and then I was sure, that it was my fault … that what I said to you in the lab, was …”  
  
"No, John …”  
  
“And then _she_ came. One of the nurses at the clinic. Mary. One day, she just ran over to me, on a bridge. She looked at me and asked if everything was all right. For a moment, I just wanted to say yes. Wanted her to go away. But then … it all just broke out of me. And she just … listened. And then she said, do you want to have a coffee? And that was it …”  
  
“She knew what buttons she had to push …”  
  
“But why? Why? That wasn’t a coincidence, was it? It can’t have been a coincidence … ”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Mycroft?”  
  
“Maybe. But even for him, Mary seemed to be like an enigma.”  
  
“Hm.”  
John stares at the ceiling.  
He remembers the feelings from that time.   
Hopelessness and grief, mixed with rage and disbelief.  
And Mary.  
The smiling Mary, with her fluffy scarves and her home-made biscuits.  
Just a facade concealing something he still can’t understand.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says next to him.  
  
John looks at him. In the twilight, he can see Sherlock’s eyes gleaming.  
  
“I’m sorry you had to suffer.”

“We both did, didn’t we?” John swallows and after a moment of hesitation he stretches his hand out to Sherlock. He strokes over his cheek with his fingers.  
Sherlock closes his eyes.  
John knows that he could spend eternities like this.  
Outside, the rain slowly ceases.   
John listens to Sherlock breathing and feels himself slowly drifting. Towards sleep.  
But Sherlock’s voice takes him back the next moment.  
  
“I saw you.”  
  
“Where?” John asks, frowning.  
  
“When I … was gone. I always saw you.” Sherlock’s voice breaks slightly and John can hear him swallow. He feels a twinge in his chest. He suspects that the following words will hurt them both. But they are necessary …   
“You were in my dreams. In the good ones. And sometimes, you suddenly stood in front of me, in the middle of the street. Or you were with me on missions. Undercover with the worst scum. You were there when I couldn’t go on anymore. When I was close to … ”“ Sherlock’s breath trembles. "When the drugs seemed to be a very good distraction. You were there and you just … looked at me. And then I couldn’t …”  
  
“I’m glad you didn’t take the drugs,” John whispers, stroking over Sherlock’s cheek again.  
  
Sherlock doesn’t answer. And suddenly John feels wetness under his fingers.  
“Sherlock,” he says, frightened, following the tear with a fingertip. “What …”

“I wanted to call you. I wanted … I was so close to doing it. I’ve had my fingers on the keys. I imagined what I would say, I … ”  
  
“All right. Everything is all right …”  
  
“I didn’t want you to suffer for two years. Everything should have gone so much faster!” Sherlock’s voice gets more and more frantic. It almost cracks. His breath is hectic and John can only stare at him, helpless and wide-eyed.  
  
“But I couldn’t … it was not safe. It was never safe! No matter how many times I went undercover somewhere, no matter how many disgusting men I sent behind bars, no matter how often I’d dismantle a part of the network - it was not safe! And when I finished one job, Mycroft told me the next target. The same pattern. Again and again. For two damn years! And when I finally thought it was over, I screwed everything up!”  
  
“What? What happened?” John asks and feels that he is learning something that should never have reached his ears. He feels it instinctively.  
And Sherlock also seems to feel it, for he falls silent with a gasp that sounds almost terrified.  
  
"Tell me,” John asks. “Tell me what happened, Sherlock.”  
  
“You’re not supposed to hear that,” Sherlock murmurs, and in the next moment, he retreats a bit from John. “No, not that …”  
  
John shakes his head. “Do not shove me away. Don’t forget what we swore! The truth. From now on there’s only the truth … ”  
  
“John …”  
  
“Please!”

A sigh. It sounds so resigned and hurt that John feels his heart ache.   
  
“Okay. All right. If you want to hear it … ”  
  
“I do.”  
  
“It was in Serbia … a terrible country. Cold. Waste. And Serbian is one of the languages I barely master. It was the last job. The last obstacle separating me from London. And I became careless. I clearly didn’t cover my tracks well enough. They … they found me. Dragged me to their hiding place. Somewhere in an abandoned factory. They dragged me into a cellar and chained me there.”  
Sherlock falls silent. He breathes heavily.   
  
"Jesus,” John mutters.  
He involuntarily clenches his hand into a fist.  
Only too easily can he imagine what would follow.  
And he’s right.  
  
“Then they began to ask questions. And they didn’t stop. I lost all sense of time at some point … It was always bright. It was always loud. When they realized I was about to fall asleep, they struck the pipes in the basement with an iron rod. I can still hear the sound in my head. At first they were content with that. Questions, light, noise. But when they realized they couldn’t bring me to talk, they became angry.”  
  
John closes his eyes.  
His fingernails dig into his palm.  
“What did they do to you?”

Sherlock draws in a shaking breath.   
“At first they used … handwork. A few hits in the stomach or in the ribs. But when this didn’t achieve the desired effect, they used the iron rod. Or an old-fashioned whip. Or a knife. The effect of cigar burns seemed to please them, too … ” Sherlock falls silent, breathing frantically, and John stares at him, breathless, disbelieving, angry …  
  
Then, after a moment of silence, Sherlock turns quietly to the side, and vomits on the floor.  
Multiple times. His whole body is tense and trembling. He continues until only bile is left.   
John stares at his heaving back and feels very empty.  
His hand, where his fingernails have left considerable traces, throbs dully.  
When Sherlock’s retching changes into suppressed sobs, John approaches him and slowly wraps his arms around him.  
First, Sherlock flinches, but then his body almost sags.  
A sound, half wheezing half-whimpering, escapes his throat.  
  
“I am here,” John whispers, pressing his face into Sherlock’s neck. “I’m here. It will be alright. You don’t have to cope with it alone.”  
  
Sherlock turns to him and buries his face in John’s shirt. He cries and he doesn’t stop for a long time.  
John is sitting there, holding him. Rocking him slowly back and forth.  
“I am here,” he says. “I’m here.”  
  
 _And I will never leave again …_  
  
After a while, the tears dry and sobs become exhaustive but regular breathes.  
At some point, Sherlock gently breaks away from him and gets up.  
He disappears into the bathroom and John stays on the bed.  
A storm of emotions rages in him.   
What he has heard is now a part of him. It is a part of both of them. And another thing they will fight together. This is out of question for him.  
There’s only _together_ now …

  
He sighs and stands up. He cleans the floor before Sherlock returns.   
It’s good to have something to do. To focus on something.  
When he’s finished, he crawls back into bed.   
He can still feel a hint of rage and disbelief.   
And a dull pain in his hand …  
When Sherlock finally comes back and leans back into John’s arms, John can smell peppermint in his breath.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispers.  
John shakes his head and strokes his back.  
“Do not apologize for that. I’m glad you told me. It is better to talk about it. To let things go … instead of hiding them inside you forever. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”  
  
Sherlock nods slowly. He puts a hand on John’s and squeezes it lightly.  
“Thank you for being here,” he says softly.  
  
“Thank you for letting me be here,” John replies.   
  
For a moment they sit there without saying anything, until Sherlock breaks the silence again. With words that warm John’s heart.   
  
“Kiss me.”  
  
It is not an order. It is a desperate request for something that they both can’t put into words but know exactly.John puts a hand under Sherlock’s chin, lifts his head, and kisses him.  
The kiss is different this time.  
There are many things in him that seem to compete with each other.   
Passion, despair, happiness, sadness, regret, scarcely passed rage, joy, love, so much love that it fills his heart and makes it swell.   
John feels everything so intensely that it seems to take his breath away.  
Sherlock sighs into his mouth, warm breath, and even warmer lips. Hands on his back, groping, reaching for hold.  
Suddenly, he feels Sherlock’s hand under his shirt. John shudders at the contact between their skin … Intimate and exhilarating.  
He bites slightly into Sherlock’s lower lip and gets a low moan in return.  
His own hand finds its way under Sherlock’s shirt, strokes over his chest, just feeling the wamth of his skin.  
As if by a secret signal, they both let go and look into each other’s eyes for a moment. There is something between them. John can feel it. He feels it in his chest and all the way down to his toes …  
  
“John,” Sherlock whispers. It sounds like a question.  
  
John knows the answer.

  
He smiles and pushes Sherlock gently down onto the pillows.  
Sherlock looks up at him, his eyes wide open. John sees so much open trust in them that it fills his heart with ardent warmth.  
He kisses Sherlock again, with all the love he can muster.  
Sherlock sighs into the kiss and reaches for John’s hair with one hand. Gentle and longing.  
John lays a hand on Sherlock’s trembling chest. Feels Sherlock’s heart beat fast and strong under his fingertips.  
He runs them down Sherlock’s torso, slowly and tenderly. To the belly button. He lingers there, an unspoken question lying between them.  
Sherlock looks at him and breathes in the air, still trembling slightly. Then he gives a small nod.

  
Answer enough.

  
John holds his gaze and strokes his hand once over Sherlock’s half-stiff erection, still covered by the satin of his pajama bottoms.  
Sherlock groans softly and closes his eyes with fluttering eyelids.  
John licks his lips.  
Sherlock opens his eyes again and looks at him intensely, his hands reaching for John’s shirt, pulling the fabric lightly.  
“I want to see you. Feel you.”  
  
“God, yes,” John says with a nod, and Sherlock slowly removes his shirt.   
He tosses it carelessly to the floor next to the bed, and then his eyes wander over John’s upper body. He swallows and then puts his fingers on the waistband of John’s pants.  
They exchange one last intense look, then Sherlock pulls his pants down.  
John feels his gaze on his penis. It’s only semi hard, but John can already feel his arousal increase under Sherlock’s observing eyes. He swallows a bit nervously.   
  
“Oh John,” Sherlock breathes. “You’re perfect.”  
  
John smiles crookedly. “I want to see you too,” he says a bit hoarsely.  
  
He takes off Sherlock’s clothes as slowly as Sherlock did his.   
And when all the clothes have disappeared, John takes in the sight of him, devouring and admiring.  
“You are beautiful,” he says softly.  
  
Sherlock smiles and looks aside for a moment.  
“I’ve dreamed of this,” he says. It sounds dizzy.  
  
John takes his hand. “Me too. And from now on our dreams will come true … ”  
  
“I can hardly believe it yet …”  
  
“Then let me show you.”

And then they touch each other.  
  
The feeling of skin on skin is overwhelming. It is intimate, it is trust and understanding.  
Sherlock traces John’s scar on his shoulder with his fingers. Fascinated. A broad braid of white lines, slightly star-shaped and uneven.  
John’s hands glide over Sherlock’s back and his shoulders in hypnotic movements, a whole different kind of scars. He lowers his head and puts his lips on Sherlock’s chest. He presses a feathery kiss on the warm skin. Sherlock sighs softly.

  
They are no longer talking. They don’t need words for this. They let eyes and lips, their hands and their bodies speak.  
They move instinctively. Closer together. Closer until there is no air

left between them.  
Their legs entwined. Their lower bodies press against each other.  
When their cocks meet without barrier, they both moan. It is too little and too much. It is almost painfully beautiful.  
John begins to slowly move against Sherlock. In an intuitive rhythm, he lets his hips grind. The rising arousal leaves them both panting.  
Sherlock grasps him by the shoulders, pulls him closer. He moans softly into John’s skin and John kisses every part of his neck that he can reach.  
John buries a hand in Sherlock’s hair. Sweeps through sweaty, silky locks.

  
He breathes Sherlock in. The sounds he’s making. His smell. Everything. He wants everything.

  
He feels his arousal build slowly but surely, his whole body is flooded by the pleasant tingling rooted in his belly. He feels like his chest is expanding with the glowing warmth he feels for the man beneath him

  
When he reaches between them and takes Sherlock’s penis in his hand, spreading precome as lubricant, Sherlock’s lips open to a breathless, silent groan and his eyes flutter shut.   
John doesn’t close his eyes. He looks into Sherlock’s face, sees every emotion on it, every expression of helpless lust. He can’t look away. He is mesmerized.   
Sherlock’s hands cling to his back, his head is pressed against John’s shoulder and John buries his face in Sherlock’s chest, pushing his breath against the place where he can feel Sherlock’s heart beats faster and faster.  
“God, Sherlock,” John murmurs, breathless. “Jesus …”

  
Sherlock kisses his shoulder in response. Feather light. A puff of air against John’s burning hot skin.  
The sensations are overwhelming. Overflowing. Both on the verge of climax.  
  
“John,” Sherlock whispers breathlessly when he is about to reach salvation. “John, John … “  
Again and again. It’s like a mantra.  
  
"Yes,” John breathes, moving his hand faster. “Come for me, Sherlock. Let me see it … ”  
When Sherlock comes, he pants and bites into John’s shoulder and John holds him tight.  
Sherlock trembles in his arms as his orgasm subsides.  
  
John is almost done for himself. He only needs to gave his own penis, which is hot and incredibly sensitive, a few strokes until he comes and the high of his orgasm is so intense, that he cries out in bliss and surprise.   
When it’s over, he rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. He feels a bit dazed.   
“Jesus,” he murmurs. “Wow.”

  
Sherlock beside him only hums in response. His eyes are closed and little pearls of sweat run over his face into the mattress.   
For a short moment, only their hectic breath is heard in the room. They gradually become slower. Rhythmic.

  
Then Sherlock says softly, “I love you, John,” and John stops breathing for a moment.   
He feels his heart swelling in his chest. He smiles and strokes over Sherlock’s cheek with his hand.  
  
“I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Corrected by [bakerstreet-irregular](http://bakerstreet-irregular.tumblr.com/).  
> Visit me on [Tumblr](http://currently-in-my-mind-palace.tumblr.com/)


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